Dan went. Dan seemed as if he couldn’t keep away.
This year Mrs. Draper had left off asking Mark and Dan and Roddy. She had left off bringing Dora and Effie with her.
Mary wondered why she had brought them now, and why her mother had asked them.
The Manistys. She had brought them for the Manistys. She wanted Mamma to see what she had brought them for. And Mamma had asked them because she didn’t care, and wanted them to see that she didn’t care, and that Mark didn’t care either.
If they only knew how Mark detested them with their “Dear Mrs. Olivier”!
Something was going on. She heard Uncle Victor saying to Aunt Lavvy, “Mark’s party is a bit rough on Dan.”
Dan was trying to get to Effie through a gap in the group formed by the Manistys and two young subalterns, Mark’s friends. Each time he did it Mrs. Draper stopped him by moving somehow so as to fill the gap. He gave it up at last, to sit by himself at the bottom of the room, jammed into a corner between the chimneypiece and the rosewood cabinet, where he stared at Effie with hot, unhappy eyes.
Supper. Mamma was worried about the supper. She would have liked to have given them a nicer one, but there wasn’t enough money; besides, she was afraid of what Uncle Victor would think if they were extravagant. That was the worst of borrowing, Mark said; you couldn’t spend so much afterwards. Still, there was enough wine yet in the cellar for fifty parties. You could see, now, some advantage in Papa’s habit of never drinking any but the best wine and laying in a large stock of it while he could.
Mary noticed that Papa and Dan drank the most. Perhaps Dan drank more than Papa. The smell of wine was over all the supper, spoiling it, sending through her nerves a reminiscent shiver of disgust.
Mark brought her back into the dining-room for the ice she hadn’t had. Dan was there, by himself, sitting in the place Effie had just left. Effie’s glass had still some wine in it. You could see him look for the wet side of the rim and suck the drops that had touched her mouth. Something small and white was on the floor beside him. Effie’s pocket-handkerchief. He stooped for it. You could hear him breathing up the scent on it with big, sighing sobs.
They slunk back into the drawing-room.
Mark asked her to play something.
“Make a noise, Minky. Perhaps they’ll go.”
“The Hungarian March.” She could play it better than Mamma. Mamma never could see that the bass might be even more important than the treble. She was glad that she could play it better than Mamma, and she hated herself for being glad.
Mark stood by the piano and looked at her as she played. They talked under cover of the “Droom—Droom—Droom-era-room.”
“Mark, am I looking too awful?”
“No. Pretty Minx. Very pretty Minx.”
“We mustn’t, Mark. They’ll hear us. They’ll think us idiots.”
“I don’t care if they do. Don’t you wish they’d go? Clever Minx. Clever paws.”
Mamma passed and looked at them. Her face shrank and sharpened under the dropped wing of her hair. She must have heard what Mark said. She hated it when Mark talked and looked like that. She hated it when you played her music.
Beethoven, then. The “Sonata Eroica” was bound up with “Violetta,” the “Guards” and “Mabel” Waltzes and the “Pluie des Perles.”
“Ubique quo fas et gloria ducunt.” That was the meaning of the noble, serious, passionate music.
Roddy called out, “Oh, not that dull old thing.”
No. Not that. There was the Funeral March in it: sulle morte d’un eroe. Mark was going away.
“Waldteufel,” then. One—two—three. One—two—three. Sustained thrum in the bass. One—two—three. Thursday—Friday—One—two—three. Saturday—Sunday. Beat of her thoughts, beat of the music in a sort of syncopated time. One—two—three, Monday.
On Tuesday Mark would be gone.
His eyes made her break off to look round. Dan had come back into the room, to his place between the cabinet and the chimneypiece. He stooped forward, his head hanging as if some weight dragged it. His eyes, turned up, staring at Effie, showed half circles of bloodshot white. His face was flushed. A queer, leaden grey flush.
Aunt Lavvy sat beside him. She had her hand on his arm, to keep him quiet there in his corner.
“Mark—what’s the matter with Dan?”
One—two—three. One—two—three. Something bumped against the glass door of the cabinet. A light tinkling crash of a broken pane. She could see slantwise as she went on playing. Dan was standing up. He swayed, feeling for the ledge of the cabinet. Then he started to come down the room, his head lowered, thrust forward, his eyes heavy with some earnest, sombre purpose.
He seemed to be hours coming down the room by himself. Hours standing in the middle of the room, holding on to the parrot chair.
“Mark!”
“Go on playing.”
He went to him. Roddy sprang up from somewhere. Hours while they were getting Dan away from the parrot chair to the door beside the piano. Hours between the opening and sudden slamming of the door.
But she had not played a dozen bars. She went on playing.
“Wait a minute, Effie.”
Effie was standing beside her with her hand on the door.
“I’ve lost my pocket-handkerchief. I must have left it in the dining-room. I know I left it in the dining-room,” she said, fussing.
Mary got up. “All right. I’ll fetch it.”
She opened the door and shut it again quickly.
“I can’t go—yet.”
III
Friday, Saturday and Sunday passed, each with a separate, hurrying pace that quickened towards bedtime.
Mark’s last night. She had left her door open so that she could hear him come
